


Notoriously late; ever punctual

by pants2match



Category: Just... RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 10:27:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pants2match/pseuds/pants2match
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is what happens when you give me five ciders and a desperation to put words to page. And also an enabler.</p><p>Possible WIP.</p></blockquote>





	Notoriously late; ever punctual

**Author's Note:**

  * For [veroniques](https://archiveofourown.org/users/veroniques/gifts).



Here’s the thing about punctuality: you either have it, or you don’t. And she, she had it in spades. Still does. He, on the other hand, does not. Something his daughter obviously inherited in-utero.

Either way, he’s on his way out to get coffee when he gets the call.

She’d been so, so sure they there were still at least a few days; first children are notoriously late and seeing as she’d had an extraordinarily uneventful pregnancy, figured she’d be right on the curve. This, however, was not the case. Literally within the hour of conception the contractions came with no less than full force. Sure, there had been some twinges earlier on in the day, but it was no different to the usual uterus-induced back pain, and even then she had a high enough tolerance for pain to deal with it herself.

Instant noodles, though remarkably low in nutritional value, is incredibly useful in sating almost any craving she’d encountered throughout the course of her pregnancy. Which is why she was in the microwaveable foodstuffs aisle when the first noticeable contraction hit. “No,”. She sets the styrofoam cup back on the shelve. “No, no, no.” Now? _Now_? God, he’d have a field day. The ever punctual Sarah delivers nine months after conception, to the day. (The hour, really, but no one has to know that). Now she understands why it’s called “laboured” breathing.

“I’m three blocks from your place. Santtu’s taken the car to get fixed. It’s time.”

“Shit, Sarah, _now_?”

“Yes, _now_ , asshole. Get over here before I have the cute shelving guy stick his hand up my skirt.”

So, he rings home, drops the (decaf) coffee off in a drive-by, and skids away down to the supermarket. There he finds her bent over a checkout station with an elderly woman cooing in her ear that it’s all worth it. When she finally spots him her entire body relaxes, she basically slumps over the counter as he all but scoops her up. “Oh, that baby’s going to be adorable!” He can actually feel the groan vibrate through her and holds back a chuckle, figuring now is not the time to aggravate her.

Then come the hysterics.

Well, not hysterics as such, but the yelling. The “try him again!” every few minutes, and then forcing him to take his phone when he runs in for her baby bag. Which is lucky because he’s about as clear-minded as she is right now and ends up completely missing bright yellow-spotted bag amidst a sea of blues and greens that was her master bedroom. Not only that, but the moment he spots the bag she’s ringing him from the car to grab her a yoghurt and an iced tea from the fridge, which takes him an extra two minutes because he has to rifle through half the drawers in her kitchen to find a straw. He returns with two witch earns him a smile before it turns back into a grimace as she grinds out a barely audible “ten minutes”. His phone reconnects tot he car and he rings her husband for the fifth time and finally gets through.

She blows through the last of the contraction and asks whichever deity is listening why bluetooth phones can’t automatically disconnect from the car when the person steps out of it. Like, is it really that hard? He’s gotta be at least ten feet away from the car and it’s still connected! Who even needs that! Who actually even wants their phone connected to their car when they’re not even in it!

(He’s sort of grateful for that little mishap because it distracts her for the rest of the ride to the hospital. Hell, she’s still going as the orderly helps usher her into the wheelchair, peach-scrubbed nurse in tow.)

By the time her husband arrives he’s about ready to tap out. He went through this, what, eight weeks ago and is in no rush to go through it again. Stroking her arm one last time and whispering he’ll be back soon, he hands the proverbial reins over to her husband, and gives her and excited look, earning him an overly-frustrated groan and a tired smile laced with gratitude and a cocktail of humour, annoyance, and unadulterated (yet always debated) fondness he’d grown all too used to.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you give me five ciders and a desperation to put words to page. And also an enabler.
> 
> Possible WIP.


End file.
